Bright Swords, Bright Stars
by Altariel
Summary: "I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness..." Denethor and Faramir.
1. Bright Swords

**Bright Swords**

"_War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend…"_  
Faramir, 'The Window on the West', _The Two Towers_

"_I would have things as they were in all the days of my life […] and in the days of my longfathers before me: to be the Lord of this City in peace…"_  
Denethor, 'The Pyre of Denethor', _The Return of the King_

* * *

_Minas Tirith, 3000 TA_

Faramir had returned, after quiet deeds. His father, standing at the window of his study, watched him as he wandered around the garden. He had been gone six months, his first tour, taking in the whole length of Ithilien. From the very north, where the green began to blacken, down through the hidden vales and falls; past the crossroads and south along the long road to the distant outpost at the crossings of Poros. To Pelargir, then, and back by boat to the Harlond. Denethor had, naturally, received regular reports throughout this time. The successes; the occasional… not failures, no, not that; not from a son of his. Missteps, perhaps, swiftly corrected.

Denethor left his study and went out onto the terrace, where an open bottle of wine, part drunk, stood on the stone wall. Faramir was standing a little way distant by the fig trees. He was quite at ease; his shirt hanging out, the sleeves rolled up. In one hand he held a glass; the other hand, trailing through the leaves, came to rest on the bark of the tree. Denethor observed him closely. Was he taller? He was certainly wirier. Tougher? One hoped so. He had been a gentle child, dreamy, turned inwards by the loss of his mother. His father's task had been to take this quiet boy and make a young man who would be sufficient for the days to come. Had he succeeded? That remained to be seen. There was a long road ahead yet.

Denethor came down from the terrace onto the grass, and walked towards his son. As he drew closer, he called out, "Well, lieutenant. And when did you intend to make your report?"

The boy, turning to see him, went rigid. "Sir!" he said, "I came to find you at the White Tower, but—"

"Faramir. Stop. No need. I had left instructions not to be disturbed."

His son unclenched, a little. He also tucked in his shirt.

"Come," Denethor said. "Come and sit with me."

They went back up to the terrace and sat together on the bench. Faramir carefully set his wine glass aside, and sat straight, his hands upon his knees, waiting for his father to speak.

"How was the boat?" said Denethor.

Faramir glanced at him. "It was… no trouble. I don't mind sailing."

"I do," said his father, with feeling. "You're lucky."

"I suppose I am."

"Pelargir?"

"Grimy."

"It has seen better days... Poros?"

"I… the mound was a sight to behold."

"Yes?"

"I… I suppose I knew the history. The Oath between us and the Éothéod… But to see that great tomb… They were so far from home…"

"The mound of the brothers," said Denethor. Two sons lost, in a single battle. "Your ancestor swore that Oath."

"Yes, sir. I know."

No, indeed, he could not fault the boy's knowledge. "What about north Ithilien?"

A smile appeared at last. "Very beautiful. It… gladdens the heart. But to see it fall each day further into ruin…" His face darkened. "That alone is worth fighting for."

"Indeed."

They kept on this way for a little while: the father asking questions; the son replying promptly. Muscle by muscle, the boy unwound. After a while, they stopped talking, and simply sat together, side by side, in peace. They had been good companions, the father thought, once upon a time, when Faramir had been younger. After Boromir left for the army. They had, he thought, got on together rather well.

"Father?"

"Yes, my son?"

"Did you… when you were younger… did you see much battle?"

"I saw enough," Denethor said. "Although I should think that before this all ends, you will have seen more than I ever did." He gave his son a cool look. "It was not to your taste?"

Faramir's arms had come across his chest, like a shield. "That hardly matters, I think."

Denethor looked back out across the garden. _No, _he thought; _I knew you would not like it. _And that, after all, was why he had pushed so hard, and demanded so much; required not excellence, but beyond. Because he knew that this boy would not like war, and that might cost him his life.

_Would you believe me_, he thought, _if I told you that I did not want this for you? That what I wanted for you was what every father wants for his son – to see you happy, fulfilled, prospering. To see you fall in love; to see you marry; perhaps, even, to see your children. To live out my life in peace and, at the end, to leave this world with you still in it… _

He reached out to place his hand upon his son's face. Faramir, startled by the touch, turned to look at him. Everyone said how alike they looked, and they did. They were mirror images. "Faramir," he said, softly. "There is no beauty in war. No grandeur. There is only necessity. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said his son. "I understand."

Denethor withdrew his hand. _I wonder if you do… _He looked back across the garden. Faramir, beside him, sighed.

"Ah!" said a voice from behind. "This is where you're both hiding!"

"Although here is someone who might not agree," said Denethor, and he smiled, as he always did, at the sight of him, the other one, his pride and his hope. But he did not miss the swift appraising glance that Boromir gave the pair of them… _Are you at odds? Do I have to intervene? Or am I safe?_

All must have been judged to be well, since Boromir came to join them. He addressed his brother. "When did you get back?"

"This afternoon."

"Boat all right?"

"Boat was fine—"

"It's a long trip—"

"It was _fine_. Don't fuss!"

"All right, I won't. What are you drinking?"

"Over there. You'll need a glass—"

"Bottle will do for me." Boromir, retrieving this, waved it at his father. "You joining us?"

Denethor, finding himself somehow on the periphery, shook his head. "Not now," he said, and rose from his seat. "Later, perhaps."

He went back inside. He watched them for a while from the window, his two sons, talking and laughing. And his courage almost failed.

* * *

_Altariel, 7__th__ January 2020_


	2. The Idea of a University

**The Idea of a University**

_Minas Tirith, 3000 TA_

They sat and waited until they heard the door close behind their father. Boromir looked anxiously at his little brother. "How was that? Was he all right with you?"

Faramir glanced back towards the house. "He was fine. I think he's… pleased to see me."

"He should be. Glowing reports from everyone. Typical you."

"Oh, you've read them too, have you?"

"What? Of course I have! You're going to be one of my key men."

"That'll be nice… But what I meant was that I didn't know you read reports."

"Cheeky little fuck… You know, he _is_ proud of you."

"Yes, I think he is."

"And he… he does love you."

"Oh, I know that too. He just… doesn't like me very much."

"What?"

"I mean, he likes you. As well as loves you. But he doesn't like me."

"That's ridiculous!"

"You two are so different, you see. He can love that. But because we're so alike…" Faramir shrugged. "I've thought about this a lot. I think… because we're so alike, the little ways in which we're different feel like a rebuke. So he doesn't like me."

This was getting into choppy waters. "Well, I'm glad to hear he likes _me_ at any rate."

"Oh, everyone _loves_ you."

Boromir preened, ever so slightly.

"Of course, they don't know you as well as I do—"

"Little bastard." Boromir filled his brother's glass; took a long swig from the bottle. "Was everything all right out there?"

"Are you going to keep on asking me this?"

"Until you answer. Was it?"

"It was exactly what I expected. Large parts of it were very boring. There was a lot of walking. The scenery was nice, in places."

"And was everyone all right with you?" Nobody likes a lord's son.

"They didn't hate me after they spent some time with me." Faramir drank some more. "And after I showed them what I could do."

There was a short silence.

"Did you kill anyone?"

"What? What kind of a question is that? You know I did."

"I'm sorry about that," Boromir said, lamely.

Coolly, his brother said, "It is rather by way of being the point."

"You do get used it—"

"I sincerely hope not."

Boromir wiped his hand across his mouth. "I wish I could have you with me at Osgiliath."

"That's not the plan though, is it? That was never the plan. Ithilien was always the plan."

"Still…"

"You do realize, don't you, that I'm not a child?"

"Yes, but…" _You're my baby brother._

Faramir stood up. He walked down the terrace onto the grass. He stood for a while, drinking steadily. When his glass was empty, he put it down, carefully, and lay on the ground next to it. "Do you know," he said, stretching out his arms, "that Poros is a very long way away. Particularly by foot."

Boromir got up and walked over to join his brother on the grass. He put the bottle down between them, and propped himself up on one elbow. "Bad news."

"What?"

"We've run out of wine."

A deep sigh. "Can you go and get some more?"

"Me? You're the junior officer."

"What?"

"Go and get some wine. That's an order, lieutenant."

"Oh, Boromir, I don't want to move!"

"Well, neither do I—"

"I've walked all the way to Poros and back!"

"You were on a boat for the last bit."

"I'm tired! Go and get it."

"You go and get you, you lazy little fuck."

"You're an oaf."

"You're a worm."

"Thug."

"Grunt."

"Go and get the wine!"

They were prevented from moving to a violent solution to their disagreement when one of the servants arrived, bearing a tray with two bottles of wine and a second glass. "Your father," he said, "sends this with his regards, and his regrets that he cannot after all join you again tonight."

They both watched until the servant was out of earshot, then gave each other meaningful looks.

"Regards," said Boromir.

"Regrets," said Faramir.

"Still, it's good wine."

"Look, he sent you a glass."

They both burst out laughing.

"You'd like Osgiliath," said Boromir, after they had made inroads on the second bottle. "It's interesting. I mean, it's in ruins, but isn't everywhere? But it's an interesting ruin."

"I think it would make me sad."

"Everything makes you sad."

"Not true."

"True."

"Everything makes me… think."

"You should probably lay off that a little."

"Did you know," began Faramir.

"Is this one of your lectures? Because I'll need more wine for that."

He got more wine. Faramir started again. "Did you know," he said, sounding like their father, "that when Osgiliath was at its height, people used to send their sons to study there. Not just from Gondor. From everywhere. The North, Harad, even further. They would come at sixteen or seventeen and stay a few years and sit in the libraries all day and meet tutors and talk to each other and learn… Oh, everything! Languages, lays, legal codes, about the stars, and mechanics, and healing…" Now he sounded like himself again. "Can you believe that?"

"I can't believe you're lecturing me about Osgiliath. Where I live."

"Oh, I can."

Boromir poked him.

"Stop that. Stop it!"

"I wish you could sit in a library all day."

"Why ever would I want to sit in a library when I can be two days' march from the Morannon?"

"Good point. Anyway, I can teach you about the stars."

"I am confident enough to bet my next pay packet that there is nothing you can teach me about the stars."

"Look at those there. What're they called?"

"That's Wilwarin."

"No, that's the Whore's Tits. What's that one?"

"Menelmacar."

"The Fucking Hard Bastard. That one?"

"That's the Valacirca, or the Sickle of the Valar."

"The Hairy Arse."

Faramir, laughing, said, "You are a _child_."

"You still owe me your next pay packet."

"I really don't."

The wine was nearly gone. Faramir turned on his side, put his hand under his head, and closed his eyes. Boromir sat and kept watch, and finished the wine. After a while, he dug the toe of his boot into his brother's leg. "Are you asleep?"

"Mmm."

"You can't sleep out here."

"Why not?"

"Because you're at home and there's a bed upstairs and you don't have to sleep on the ground. I thought you were the clever one."

"Don't mind the ground. Me and the ground – good friends these days."

"It's autumn. What if it rains?"

"You get wet. Then you dry off."

"You're not sleeping outside!"

"Keep your feet dry, though. That's what they say all the time. Remember that, all right? If you ever find yourself slogging around the wild. Keep your fucking feet dry."

"Faramir, did you just swear?"

Faramir opened an eye and glared at him. "I was _quoting_."

Somehow, Boromir got him to stand, and then they began the slow drag and tumble back indoors. As they passed their father's study, they put their fingers to their lips, and, very loudly, hushed each other.

"_Ssssh! Ssssh!"_

Up the stairs, with some setbacks. Along the corridor. "Why did you pick rooms halfway to Dol Amroth?"

"Because you snore."

"Little bastard."

"Goon."

"Swot."

Through the door. Onto the bed. Boots off. "Good news."

"What?"

"Your feet are dry."

"Best news I've had in ages. Apart from being in this bed." Faramir stretched out his arms. "I love this bed. I've missed this bed."

"Yes, well, I've missed you, you little fuck."

"And I love you too, brother."

* * *

_Tharbad, 3018 TA_

Boromir, having dragged himself out of the river and onto the bank, lay there shivering for a while. Eventually, since nobody else was coming, he pulled himself up to his feet and began to take stock. His pack had survived, at least, and a good part of the food. Everything soaked, of course. And his horse was gone. This was going to be a long walk.

Eventually, he got a fire going. He sat in the shelter of a huge broken arch of the ruined bridge and watched the flames dancing around. He thought about how tired he was. He thought about all the chances of the world that had brought him here. He thought about his father, and his brother, and what they would say if they could see him now.

_Everyone loves you. _

_And I love you too, brother_.

_Keep your fucking feet dry._

* * *

_Altariel, 9__th__ January 2020_


	3. Bright Stars

**Bright Stars**

"_For myself… I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens…"_  
Faramir, 'The Window on the West', _The Two Towers_

* * *

_Minas Tirith, 24 FA_

Elboron and Morwen had returned, eyes full of northern stars. With Elboron, at least, the reason was simply, joyfully apparent. "Her name is Silmarien," he gushed. "Ilmarë. Oh, Mother, Father – I want you to meet her! We want to marry, as soon as we can!"

"How long," said his mother, sternly, "have you known her?"

"Three weeks for us, Éowyn," murmured his father.

"That was different—"

"Three minutes for me."

"Don't even try to change his mind," said Morwen. "He's been writing poetry all the way home."

"Is it good poetry?" asked his father, with interest.

"It's not bad," said Elboron.

"Good love poetry is not an easy undertaking," said his father.

"Did you write any?" said Éowyn.

"No," said Faramir. "Yes. None that survived sufficiently intact to be read."

"Hmm," said Éowyn. "Is that true?"

"I wouldn't… _lie_ to you, Éowyn."

"You might dissemble."

"Don't worry, Mother," said Morwen. "I'll find it. Listen, Father, because this will interest you—"

"She's so beautiful," sighed Elboron. "Like… _starlight_."

"How did you meet?" asked his father.

"She and I were studying together," said Morwen. "Papa, do listen – Ilmarë and her father have ground glass in such a way that they can look more closely at the moon—"

"Ithil," breathed Elboron. "It's fated."

"Yes, yes, you've said… But, Father, they've built a little chamber up on the hills beside Annúminas, and on clear nights they go and watch the stars—"

"There was a place like that on the high plains outside the city," said Faramir. "Although I never had the chance to go and look."

"I've been there," piped up Léof, from behind his book.

"Have you?" said his father, in surprise.

"Mmm. You mentioned it once, so I went to see. It's not in ruins, although it is rather overgrown. I cut that back last year, but I didn't want to touch the device itself. If Morwen has some idea about its workings, we could go and take a closer look."

"Tomorrow morning," said Morwen.

"Fine by me," said Léof, and went back to his book.

"I can't come tomorrow," said their father, plaintively. "The council is in session."

"Oh, the council is always in session," said Morwen. "If we wait for that we'll never get going. Besides, there are other things I need you to do. You too, Mother."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, the idea came to me after we passed through Rivendell and I saw the books there. Full of marvels and nobody to read them! And I thought – this place, there should be a place like this. But where people would come, and gather, and read the books, and speak to each other about them, and learn from each other—"

Faramir recalled finding Rivendell a melancholy place; somewhere from which enchantment had departed. But Morwen was a child of a different age. The new world lay before her like an open book.

"Annúminas too. Mother, it's not only the stars where they are ahead of us! What they know about the healing arts – we should learn! That, and so much more. And I thought, why not here, in Minas Tirith – as it was in Osgiliath once. Now that the roads are good. People could come here for this reason. To bring what they knew and to learn from each other. They would come from everywhere!"

She spoke with her hands, and as she did she conjured up in the mind a vision of rooms full of books, and speech, in many languages; of the exchange of thoughts and the meeting of minds; of a city of light and learning, a bright beacon for a new age…

"But we would need _space_, Father. There would have to be a _place_ for it."

Faramir, who had directed much of the rebuilding of the city over the last twenty years, said, "I daresay that could be found."

"And money. There would need to be money. To pay the tutors and help the scholars and so on—"

Faramir, who had spent the previous fortnight working through the kingdom's finances, said, "I daresay that could be found too."

"And there would have to be schools. To prepare people from all walks of life to come."

Her father sighed and rubbed his thumb along the crease line between his brows. "You should probably write this all down."

"Yes, yes! I shall!" She flew to the desk across the room and began to lay out the details of her thinking.

"Can I write to her?" said Elboron. "Tell her to come?"

His mother kissed him. "Write to her now. Tell her she will be most welcome." She watched him join his sister at the desk, and looked at her husband, sitting deep in thought. "And so, I think, will be her father."

* * *

_Altariel, 9__th__ January 2020_


End file.
